


The Process

by diettakramer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cutting, Gen, Masturbation, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27109102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diettakramer/pseuds/diettakramer
Summary: Sam has a process.





	The Process

It's a process. First, there’s the feel of it in his hand, the solidity of the carved antler handle, the glint of orange lamp light off the engraved blade. His dad doesn’t trust him to have his own set of knives yet, so when he and Dean go out on hunts, inevitably leaving him behind, Sam has to go to the box John thinks he hides well under his bed. This one is his favorite. The weight of it, the sureness he feels. He'd tried others in the past, going through each knife one by one, looking for that perfect fit. This is it. 

Then, there’s the finding. Sam's been favoring his legs lately. He's never been much for shorts and he always makes sure to change clothes in the bathroom. He tells John and Dean it’s because of his growth spurts. Puberty makes one shy, he heard. They don’t question it. This time he decides to add a fourth line to the row above his right knee. When he first started, he’d used a serrated knife stolen from a diner outside Hominy, Oklahoma. The red-headed waitress had looked right through him, focusing instead on his enigmatic older brother. That's how it always went. That knife hadn’t been much good, forcing Sam to saw back and forth to get any bit of blood out. Back then he’d been nervous, slicing lines along his belly button, enjoying the stretch and pull as he moved through the day. 

Now though, with this knife, a knife he knows has made its fair share of cuts and stabs in monsters and demons, he can make real marks. He goes to the bathroom and sits down on the toilet lid, leaving the door cracked to listen for their return. It's close enough he can slam it at a moment’s notice. He undoes his belt and unzips his jeans, pulling them down around his ankles. The plastic is cold against his thin blue boxers, disgusting hand-me-downs from Dean’s younger years. He palms the skin of his thigh, feeling the faint hairs starting to grow there. The third line has started to scab, just a few days old. He runs his nail up along the side, catching under an edge, and pulling up and up until it peels away from his flesh, the sting of pain hitting him hard. Tingles go down his nerves, making his leg jerk and kick the hard tile. More pain in his heel. 

Now comes the cutting. With his left hand on his knee, he pulls his skin taut. He likes things to be parallel, symmetrical, so he places the tip of the blade precisely, equidistant from the others. Geometry had always been one of his favorite subjects. It doesn’t hurt at first. It never does. It's like placing your hand on a hot stove. There's that split second before you feel the pain. Then it bursts forth, a buzz below the surface, like his body is angry at him for treating it this way. 

Now that the cutting’s done, he realizes he’s getting hard. It doesn’t happen every time but it’s like the blood in his body is rising up and answering the call, the need, just in another form. He switches the knife to his left hand and eases his stiffening dick out of the slit in his underwear. It's already leaking a little, tiny droplets landing on the blue fabric, joining the memory of other times he’s done this. 

He starts slow, running his fingers lightly down the side, feeling the slight bumps and hairs. A small part of him wonders what it would be like to cut there, to pinch and slice that delicate thin skin. It would be so easy, he thinks, even easier to hide than his shins, his knees. Maybe another time. For now, he firms up his grip more, enclosing his fist around it, sliding up and down. 

There's not enough blood from the cut for lubricant but the thought sends little fingers of delight thrumming down his spine, eases more liquid out of the head. He spits into his hand and adds that to it, the way becoming more and more slick as he goes.

He stares at the cut on his thigh, tiny pearls of red appearing and disappearing as the skin attempts to heal itself from this desecration. He doesn’t quite understand how something so fundamentally against human nature can feel so goddamn good. 

He's getting close already. He remembers Dean jokingly calling him quick draw, one night when he’d forgotten to lock the door and his brother had walked in on him. Dean had stepped back out fast but not before the shock rocketed Sam into his orgasm, the surprise zinging through his veins, coming in spurts into the sock he’d been holding close. Dean had later bullied him into telling him it had only been two minutes from start to finish. He'd promised to teach Sam how to prolong the experience for later, when he started dating, an offer which Sam found equal parts disgusting and grateful for. 

Suddenly there’s that tug at the base of his spine, the shaking in his thighs, and he’s done for already. He jacks himself hard and aims down, letting the white stripes find the red lines on his thigh like old friends. It stings on contact and that only makes the sensation more intense. His ears buzz like the static from an old TV before finally cutting out. 

When it’s done, he drops his shoulders, feels the tension leave his body like the sloughing of wet clothes. He hadn’t even realized he’d been so locked up. He leans back against the toilet tank and closes his eyes, gasping, basking in the sensation. His fingertips feel numb and he lets go of the knife he’d forgotten he was still holding, lets it slide down his palm to thump on the shaggy bathroom rug.

This is the shit that gets Sam going. The sips of whiskey Dean gave him when John was passed out, the cigarette puffs sneaked behind the convenience store in Sioux Falls, even his first kiss with that mysterious girl – none of them had ever gotten Sam as high as this simple act does. 

He smiles to himself and looks down. There's a tiny trickle of blood down his thigh and he wipes it away with his thumb. It's mostly clotted already. Sucking the blood off his finger, he stands, slightly woozy, tucks himself away, pulls his jeans back up. He tightens the belt and can feel the drag of the rough fabric against the ripped skin. God does it feels good. 

He wonders if Dean ever gets this kind of feeling after a hunt, coming home all torn up from a monster’s claws, deep gouges in his chest and arms. Sam's gotten good at stitches, winding the thread back and forth, pulling the ripped edges back together. He almost feels sad to see such beauty disappearing. Does Dean ever flutter and twitch at the destruction of his body, a literal death by a thousand cuts? Does the sight of his insides on the outside ever get him off the way it does for Sam? He wants to believe he does, despite knowing better. He wants to believe they have something in common anymore, even something as perverse at this.

He takes care to check for blood and come, both on the toilet and on the knife. He doesn’t need jokes from Dean later about ‘little Sammy starting his period.’ He washes his face, shakes the last little twitches out his limbs. Steps back into the main room. They still haven’t returned. After one last rub of the rough handle, he puts the knife back in the box, puts the box back under the bed. He sits on the edge of the bed he and Dean will still share, despite Dean’s protestations of adulthood. Grabs the remote and turns the ancient TV on. There's a rerun of Mork and Mindy on so he scoots back and settles against the pillows. He's gotten good at waiting. 

While he waits for them to return, to burst through with their blood and gore and needs, he traces the fresh line under his clothes, running the smooth pad of his fingers across the denim, reveling in his secret pleasure. Though this time is only just done, he's already thinking about next time. It's ongoing. It's a process.


End file.
